


every man gets his wish

by historymiss



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Gen, I just listened to a lot of lana del rey and this fell out, spoilers for the end of harrow the ninth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:22:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26512096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historymiss/pseuds/historymiss
Summary: Thrones come in sets on Ida
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	every man gets his wish

When Ianthe drags herself out of the River, she is shivering, her robes and hair hanging limply around her frame like an etiolated caul, some kind of remnant, perhaps, of the girl she used to be. 

She runs her golden hand down her face to wipe away the water that isn’t there anymore, and heaves a shuddering breath before she turns to look at God.

He’s still out of it- he was deeper into the stoma than her, halfway into the gullet already, and if she thinks more about that, the churning mass of darkness underneath her feet as she pulled her god from the reach of her brother, well, she’s going to start dribbling on herself, probably, and friendly reminder, but that isn’t a cute look.

God, by contrast, is drooling on himself freely.

“Ugh.” Ianthe allows herself to indulge in the small pleasure of heresy, as he is out cold right now and can’t hear her. “Divine slime.”

When Ianthe Tridentarius was a very small girl, her mother had taken her by the hand (her sister too) and walked them, slowly, to account for toddling steps, to the throne room of Ida, and showed them the two small gold stools that sat at the feet of two more golden thrones. 

They had looked like steps, to Ianthe. 

Slowly, she reaches out to touch the brown, sweaty curls plastered to God’s forehead. He cannot die. That much is true. But thrones come in sets, on Ida. 

His eyes open, not fast or sudden, but a slow, blinking return to consciousness. 

“Ianthe?” 

She offers him her hand- the golden one- and does not think of Harrow, or her sister, not even a little bit.

“My lord.” She wonders what epithet she’ll get, now. The Saint of Loyalty? Perhaps the Queen of Heaven. She wonders if he’ll teach her that trick of keeping the sun alive. 

He takes her hand, and does not thank her. That’s fine. Ianthe didn’t save him for the thanks.


End file.
